“Very well, then,” cried Marcus. “Forward! This way first.”
“Yes, but that’s too much of it,” said the old soldier. “A commanding officer don’t make speeches to his men ’cept when he’s going into action, and not always then. What you ought to have said was just ‘forward!’ and then advanced with your troops to follow you.”
Marcus nodded and smiled, and, side by side and spear in hand, they climbed to the highest ground, carefully surveying their surroundings of wood and rock—every place, in fact, likely to give harbour to an enemy, till all at once Marcus threw out his left arm across his companion’s breast, and, stopping short, stood pointing with his spear to something half hidden behind a patch of bushes upon the other side of the stream.
Serge sheltered his eyes on the instant, and gave a satisfied nod.
“Right, captain,” he whispered; “but your force isn’t strong enough to surround the enemy. You must advance in line. It’s an ambuscade.”
The half-concealed figure was nearly a hundred yards away, and, by the time they had covered half the distance, Marcus’ keen young eyes sent a message to his brain, and he whispered to his companion in an awe-stricken voice:
“It’s that wounded man. He has lain down to die.”
The old soldier uttered a low grunt, and sheltered his eyes again.
“Looks like it,” he said, “but we had best make sure. Tell your men to level their spears and advance at a run. Dead men are dangerous sometimes.”
Recalling the lesson he had just received, Marcus lowered his spear and uttered the one word: